


Infamies

by lack_of_usernames



Series: MCYT Mystery/Horror [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Dream Smp, Gen, Horror, Minecraft, Mystery, Pain, help why is this so awkward aldkfhfh, sadness?, tags are so weird smh, the violence isn't super graphic but it's there, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28813932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lack_of_usernames/pseuds/lack_of_usernames
Summary: Welcome to Drasp, a town with a troubled cast of characters: a snappy best friend, two tired detectives, and a missing child--and that's just four of them.Welcome to Drasp, a recipe for disaster.
Relationships: aha please no
Series: MCYT Mystery/Horror [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112534
Comments: 8
Kudos: 2





	1. Notes and Disclaimers

Hello! This is my first story on ao3. It's the first story of a series. I'm currently writing the second story, and I'll add it on ao3 when it's done. This series has been my main writing focus lately; it's really fun to write. :D

This story's characters are loosely based off Twitter user RottyPunk's (https://twitter.com/rottypunk) MCYT horror AU, which are based off real people. I MEAN NO HARM/DISRESPECT TO ANY OF THE REAL PEOPLE THESE CHARACTERS ARE BASED OFF. If I catch wind of any of them saying they're uncomfortable with this story, I'll gladly remove it. This'll go for the sequel, too. This is just for fun and because RottyPunk's characters are really cool lol

I also plan on uploading this story to Wattpad. The chapters'll be uploaded to each website at around the same time, I imagine. If you want to check it out there, it's @bonfiretime.

I'll be adding to these notes when necessary.

If you decide to read the series, I hope you enjoy it! Fair warning, though: there's a bunch of violence and blood and stuff. If you don't like that, you might not like the story. Of course, you might not like it anyway lol have fun

 **update (Feb. 8, 2020):** It's come to my attention that RottyPunk's Twitter no longer exists. They might have made a new account under a different name or something, but I don't know, and I can't exactly do anything about it. Regardless, I thought I'd mention it here if you tried the link but wondered why nothing showed up. I think it a shame that it's gone, but of course, I respect the decision. You didn't need to visit their page to understand the story, anyway. :)


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur's back in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't take into account that the "Notes and Disclaimers" chapter would throw off the chapter count for the rest of the story. I guess that's what the chapter titles are for lol
> 
> ALSO FORMATTING TEXT IS SO TEDIOUS AND ANNOYING UGH
> 
> update: oh so that's what the Rich Text option is for--

Wilbur should have suspected Drasp to look considerably different after months of his absence, but when he entered the borders again, wrinkled letter in hand, his eyes widened in surprise. The traditional wooden walkways that outlined the town had branched out to neighborhoods he didn't recognize, but the familiar buildings were still scattered throughout the grassy landscape. Just for a second, he was home again in his mind.

The letter wagged between his fingers in the wind. What a silly thing to think.

No one was around when he walked throughout Drasp, not even Tommy, which didn't bother him all that much; he was too distracted to make decent conversation. His eyes were set on the building the letter had given him the address of, and he went on his way. It was just his luck; the sun was already setting, and if there was one thing that had not changed about Drasp, it was the lack of torches and lampposts.

Nighttime had fallen on the town, and the moon shone in all its pale glory down on Wilbur's face. Evil-eyed spiders crawled around the building, their hissing constant and threatening. Bees could be heard in the distance, minding their own business. Wilbur frowned. Drasp was quieter than he remembered.

The doors were begging to be opened, yet he hesitated. Schlatt, the leader of Drasp, was not one to be messed with, and surely his temper had only gotten worse with time. He didn't even want to think about what Dream could do. Was Dream aware he was here? Did it even matter?

He'd have to be cautious anyway; the fact that Wilbur had only come here upon request did not help matters, for he was otherwise banned from Drasp. This was dangerous territory.

Wilbur finally got his wits together and pushed open the creaky wooden door. The room was undecorated and barren, nothing but cobblestone and glass panes surrounding him. There was no one to be seen. He didn't bother checking the letter again to see if he had misread the address; he'd read it over so many times on his way here, he practically had it memorized.

Scoffing at the dim yellow light, Wilbur began assessing the deserted room. It was new despite the subpar lighting, but it seemed to have no use. Three chairs and a table sat ominously in one of the back corners. His first thought told him they were for him and Schlatt, along with a third member Wilbur could not guess with certainty. Tired and confused, he took a seat with a sigh, setting his bags down. The letter was damp in his hand from holding it for so long, and he clearly had no other important business, so he reread it for the thousandth time to prepare himself.

_Wilbur Soot,_

_Drasp has been much better off without you. Literally no one misses you, except for maybe that Tommy kid. Niki says she misses you too, but I don't know why she would. Ah, and Tubbo._

_Do you remember Tubbo? I could tell you two were close. He talked about you quite a bit after you left. It got kind of annoying sometimes. I say "used to" because he has unfortunately gone missing. He was a pain in the ass, I'll admit it, but you of all people know he was a good kid._

_Look, the only reason I'm writing you this letter is because this case has been driving everyone crazy. I mean, we've had our mysteries around here—I know you know that—but this is just too much. Not even George has been able to get anything close to a lead, and he's the best investigator around. I know people with information, and you've built quite a reputation for yourself as a detective of sorts, so I asked them for your location so I could send you this letter._

_Now listen, buddy. I'm not asking you to do this with a smile on my face, but everyone's in a panic, and you seem to be my best shot. So, here's the deal. As soon as you can, you're going to make your merry little way to Drasp (you remember the route), and the first thing you're going to do is walk straight to this address: 010 4th Street. More information will be given when you get here. I'll be waiting, Wilbur._

_Schlatt_

Waiting, indeed. The only one here doing the waiting was Wilbur. It appeared Schlatt had gotten less classy and punctual—a tragic, impossible low in Wilbur's mind. He might have left Drasp behind, but he remembered its leader far more vividly than he would like to admit.

And yet, Wilbur missed him. He had mercilessly thrown him out, he was a tyrant, he was supercilious, and Wilbur still admired him, even if it was just the tiniest bit. If anything, Schlatt had confidence. He was happy.

A timid voice from the entrance startled Wilbur so much he jumped, but it took him no time to realize who it was.

"Wilbur!" Niki exclaimed, her smile swelling his heart even though it was almost too dark to see. Wilbur stood with a start and they embraced each other in a hug, laughing with joy and disbelief. They had always been good friends, and Niki had been devastated to see Wilbur banished on that fateful day.

"It's great to see you, Niki!" He was so happy, he forgot to ask her where Schlatt was. As it turned out, he didn't have to.

Like a flame in the dark, Schlatt walked in and he was all Wilbur could focus on. He strolled in, eyes wandering, as cocky and irritating as ever.

"Some things never change, do they, Schlatt?"

"No, Wilbur, some things do not. I see you've already taken a seat for yourself." Schlatt gestured toward Wilbur's limp bags next to one of the chairs.

"Yes, I have," Wilbur said. More often than not, he had something useful to say, but Schlatt was one of the few people that did not apply to, and the fact Wilbur did not know why annoyed him greatly.

From his pocket, Schlatt retrieved a remote control and pressed a button that illuminated the room more than Wilbur's eyes could currently handle. The bulbs glowed a dazzling gold compared to the weak flickers just moments earlier. Niki shut her eyes tightly, and even Schlatt squinted, but he didn't turn it down at all.

"Well, then. Let's get started, shall we?"

It hurt Wilbur that Tubbo had gone missing, and it didn't make him any happier that for all anyone knew, the boy was dead. Tommy worrying about it didn't do much good for Wilbur's mind either; Tommy was the least worrisome person Wilbur knew. But he supposed it was a given, seeing as the two boys were best friends.

"You know that George is into this urban legend mystery shit," Schlatt went on, "and he's pretty good at what he does, but this Tubbo case...yikes, he's going crazy, Wilbur. And Tommy keeps telling him not to give up, but the kid doesn't even help him. It's insane."

Niki looked to the floor the whole time, lips pursed, her mind somewhere else. She always looked nervous and anxious before Wilbur had left, her voice no more than a whimper, and it seemed it had only gotten worse. All that did was break his heart; he knew Niki cared about Tubbo more than anyone in this town, and now Tubbo was gone, and she was left alone to assume the worst. Schlatt, despite Niki being his highest-ranking subordinate, didn't bat an eye. Wilbur couldn't say he was surprised; if memory served, Niki never liked Schlatt's leadership, and Schlatt knew it.

"So what, you want me to take George's place?" He almost sounded hopeful, which was beyond pathetic. As long as Schlatt made the rules, Wilbur would not be calling Drasp home ever again. He was a just a visitor at best and a threat at worst.

"Ha! Good one. No, we want you to help George—and hey, while you're at it, try to see if Tommy can help, too. Keep him distracted. Get him to do something useful for once."

"Alright, then. Just know I'm not doing this for you, Schlatt. I'm doing this job for Drasp, not for you."

"Oh, Wilbur," Schlatt clicked his tongue, the light dancing in his eyes, "I am Drasp. You do anything here, you're doing it for me. Understood?" Niki slowly shook her head as her fingernails pierced her skin. Wilbur's mouth went bitter at the idea of Niki wanting to hurt Schlatt, but then got nervous he would even think such a thing. He couldn't live with himself if Niki devolved into a murderer.

Wilbur's glare was unwavering, but he could not argue. Schlatt could always take back the invitation, and Wilbur would never be seen here again. Tubbo would die if he's not gone already, and Tommy and Niki would live in despair while George lost his mind in a fruitless case.

"Yes, understood. When do I get started?"

"I imagine you'll want to stay with George, but you could also stay in this building, if you like it enough. It's not like there's anything here, though, and I'm sure as hell not offering you any luxuries, so you'd be living off of what you brought, along with anything your friends give you."

"In that case, if George doesn't mind, I'll be staying with him." Wilbur had become content with being alone, but it would be nice to spend extra time with the guy he'd be working with.

Besides, this case might be a murder of sorts, and as far as Wilbur was concerned, George was a suspect. Schlatt was, too, but Wilbur would have to worry about him later—he knew Schlatt was practically untouchable in Drasp. Dream didn't care enough about Tubbo to do something to him, and Niki wasn't even a minimal threat; she didn't have the heart to point a toy gun at someone, never mind shoot a real one. And at Tubbo? Wilbur nearly laughed at the idea of it.

"I say he won't mind, so he won't mind. Don't even worry about it, alright? When you two figure this disappearance out—and you will—let me know as soon as possible so I can thank you and send you back to whatever sewage pipe you came from. Seriously, you look like shit."

"Noted," Wilbur said flatly. "I'm sorry I couldn't dress up for you."

"Oh, please." Schlatt waved his hand dismissively with an eyeroll, but Niki let out a giggle. "Go on, lover-boy; we're done here, but I've got my eye on you in this town. Niki will show you the way to George's house."

"Oh—Niki, you really don't have to—"

"No, no, I insist, Wilbur." She smiled as she picked up some of his bags from the dusty floor. Schlatt was already out the door, wandering about in the night until he was tired enough to get to bed. This was a risky thing to do given the possibility of an unchecked killer, but Schlatt didn't seem to care.

Wilbur and Niki had a chatty walk to George's residence, Niki doing some cathartic ranting (hurting Schlatt did not come up) and Wilbur explaining some of his most recent cases. It wasn't too long before they found themselves at George's front door. The porch light was turned off, but from behind the curtains, soft candlelight could be seen.

"Well, that was a faster walk than I thought it would be," Niki said, but it was clipped by a sob. Her eyes revealed sadness and concern. Wilbur knew this expression uncomfortably well.

"Niki, is everything alright?"

Cattle snorted and mooed amongst the cricket songs. With a sense of questioning, she looked right at Wilbur for a long while, almost in fear, which unsettled him very much in a way he couldn't describe. Her body turned to face the front door.

"Tell me you'll find him, Wilbur."

The tremor in her voice was a slap in the face. Wilbur knew he couldn't afford to make promises or raise anyone's hopes, especially not Niki's. Nothing he could say would make her feel better, so he dropped all his bags and pulled her into a hug instead, wishing over and over again he would be able to make her feel better somehow, to heal a wound that should have never been felt.

There they stood for a long while, drenched in the evening's eerie loneliness. A bout of breeze came through, and the light in George's house vanished through the curtain fabric. Wilbur took it as a signal to go. But first, thanking Niki was the least he could do.

"Of course, Wilbur," her glossy eyes squinted, "and let me know if you need anything else, okay?"

"Sure thing, Niki. Same here." Guilt had his heart aching all the way up to the last porch steps. She was already walking away, but he wanted to rush after her and tell her that no matter what the stories say, even the best and saddest detectives end up with cold cases.

George and Wilbur were never very close. Before Wilbur's untimely dismissal, they would have called themselves acquaintances at most, but now they were practically strangers to each other. The truth deflated Wilbur just enough to wait for a few seconds at the door, motionless.

The door was unlocked—Wilbur hoped that was only because George was expecting him—and the silver handle was rusting and chipped. Wilbur barely paid it any attention, welcoming himself into the house at the promise of a companion and a room to put all his things in. At this point, they were weighing him down and hurting his shoulders and back something awful.

"Hello?" A vaguely worried voice shouted from the back of the house as Wilbur shut the door as quietly as he could with his foot. The interior was an absolute mess—papers covered in notes and drawings were thrown about, and countless pens and compasses littered the floor. Wilbur did not have to investigate hard to gather George was not expecting company that night.

"Hello? George? It's Wilbur! Do you remember me?" Not wanting to step forward and intrude more than he already had, his bags were set beside him, and he began to pick at his scarf.

Shuffling and grunting was not the answer Wilbur was looking for. It took a few minutes to get any reasonable response. To Wilbur, it would begin to seem the empty stone room was more welcoming.

"Wilbur Soot?" The utter confusion that came from his name was surprising. "You took your sweet time!"

"Oh, what a pleasure it is to see you, too. You...you were expecting me?"

It was a laugh too joyous and dramatic for such a question, but George cackled all the way to the small kitchen anyway, where Wilbur could finally see him.

George looked about the same, with those goggles seemingly inseparable from him. They were perched above his head, where his eyes showed about a thousand reactions. They lit up as he spoke.

"Ha-ha! The famous Wilbur Soot! Of course I was expecting you! Schlatt told me that maybe you would stay here for some time. That's why I cleaned up the place!"

The pit in Wilbur's stomach grew heavier. "Ah, yes. It looks lovely. Thank you."

"Really? I thought I did a pretty rubbish job, but I'm glad you think it looks good! Come, let's have dinner. Have you had dinner yet?"

Wilbur had been hungry for a while now, but he was more worried about George. His mind raced around, remembering bits and pieces of tales his old friend Technoblade would share with him of mad scientists and investigators that were altered after losing their sanity to their work. Wilbur swore to himself he would never fall down that hole, and his oath had not yet been broken.

George might not have looked like a maniac, but he was just unsettling enough for Wilbur to insist he wasn't hungry for dinner. "Er, thank you, George, but I'm pretty tired, and it looks like you are, too. Let's head to bed, yeah?"

"Oh, b-but Wilbur!" George sputtered, his volume nothing short of yelling, "Haven't you heard? There's a missing person! Tubbo! Tubbo is missing! You have to help me find him!" That's why you're here!"

George may have been acting strange, but of course it wasn't totally his fault. Nevertheless, Wilbur was having none of it—not just because it was a pitiful sight, but because he was also tired, and George's intensity got irritating fast.

Wilbur carefully stepped over the mess and shook his partner's shoulders, firm in his grip. "George. Go to bed. You need it." He really needed George to obey before he had to do something he'd feel guilty about.

"I can't go to sleep, Wilbur," George dragged his words, "because I have a missing child to find. Have you not been listening to me? I just need a little more time. I'm so close—"

"George!"

His breath hitched. "Leave me alone, Wilbur Soot."

"No. I'm here to help you."

"I don't need your help, and I really don't want your pity. Your room is in the back on the left." George stepped away, revealing rationality in his tone. Wilbur's arms dropped down. "If you're not hungry, you can go to bed. Feel free to come and help me, though."

For a moment, Wilbur didn't know what to think or do. What do you tell someone who is not willing to listen?

"You know, if you go to sleep now, you'll wake up sharper and do better with your investigating."

To Wilbur's surprise, George answered right away. "Believe me, I've been told that more times than I can count. But it's better if I just try and get it done as soon as I can."

"Look, it just isn't healthy—"

"Uh, I know!" George scoffed. "But I have to do it!"

"You're wasting your time! What would you even be working with? It's not like you have anything useful!"

"Damn, thanks for the reminder."

"Oh, did I hurt your feelings?" Wilbur spat. "I just—I think you're forgetting the fact that I'm here to help you." His arms flailed as he fought to end the argument.

George held his face in his hands and tore off his goggles in frustration. "Whatever. If it makes you shut up. Sleeping isn't productive, dammit!"

"Neither is not sleeping enough!"

"What?" George's shoulders relaxed. "Neither...neither not..."

"Mate, just head to bed. You need it." This argument was over. Wilbur didn't have to do anything serious.

"Okay..."


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur and Tommy do not get much done, unfortunately.

George slept for the entirety of the next day.

Wilbur was left to do whatever miscellaneous things came to mind. He’d woken up with his stomach crying for food, but he was still a house guest and didn’t want to tamper with anything. He would have eaten something he’d packed, but all of that was long gone. A bowl of decent fruit was tempting him from the table, and before he knew it, his breakfast of two bananas and oranges was over. He scribbled out a note of apology: _Sorry, but I was really hungry. I’ll buy you some today to make up for it._

The day was young and beautiful, albeit still strangely quiet. The laughter in the streets Wilbur associated the town with had, for the most part, simply dissipated, overpowered by random nothings: chirping birds, rushing rivers, and the endless droning of bees. Walking alone and unbothered, his mind ebbed and flowed between George’s wellbeing and wanting to see Niki again.

The grocery was not harder to come by than any other local store, and with his purchase, Wilbur completed his first and only planned task of business. The rest of the day was unwritten, but Wilbur knew his job well enough and thought it best to head back to George’s to assess his notes—if he could find them in all the clutter.

For an obsessed investigator held in the town’s high regard, George didn’t have much to go off at all. That was the maddening bit, of course—after working tirelessly, coming up mostly empty was surely frustrating and disappointing. He had asked so many locals, too...this was a stealthy operation, to say the least. The entire town was in the dark.

Despite the little he had to work with, Wilbur worked it out to be just enough to pose a few decent questions. George kept a list of all the names of those he’d already questioned, and Wilbur wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Tommy’s name near the top. If anybody had seen anything, surely it would have been him. At least, that’s what Wilbur would have deduced; George’s page of notes under Tommy’s name was barren.

“How the hell can that be?” Wilbur couldn’t accept it. Tommy had to be hiding something.

Tommy’s house was humble. He liked to decorate it in strange ways anyone else would find odd—large chests of useless trinkets placed on shelves, potless flowers in mounds of soil against the house’s corners—but no one mentioned it; who would? Tommy never has visitors. Tubbo and Wilbur were the exceptions, very much used to the house’s strange charm and its equally puzzling owner, but obviously, neither of them were able to visit recently. The boy’s days were growing lonelier.

Wilbur stood with a startled expression in the doorway after a single knock on the door, and as soon as he and Tommy met each other’s eyes, he cracked a smile. “Tommy! It—

“Wilbur! Jesus Christ, man!”

“What—”

Tommy didn’t even give him the chance. Half a second went by, and Wilbur was in Tommy’s house, pulled in by the wrist rashly. The pain was only slightly dulled by the confusion.

Tommy hadn’t changed much since Wilbur left Drasp and started talking before any explanations could be given. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re banned! Schlatt’s probably going to kill you if he sees you!”

“Oh,” Wilbur said rather casually, rubbing his wrist and taking in the sights of the house’s interior, which he had somewhat forgotten the details of. “Schlatt’s the one who called me back, actually. There’s...there’s a missing person. He...wants me to help George...find them.”

Wilbur braced for Tommy’s reaction.

“You’re here to find Tubbo.”

“That’s right. And don’t worry, because I will.” The words fell out of Wilbur’s mouth, and with a grimace, he knew he could not take them back. “Er, well, George and I will. George is just, uh, taking a break.”

“A break? But he hasn’t gotten anything done!” It was an ignorant answer, a childish one, and it was curiously similar to what George said the night before.

“You’re one to talk,” scoffed Wilbur. “It’s hard to continue a case with nothing to go off of. And it’s not like you offered much help.”

“How the hell am I supposed to help him? He asked me questions, and I had no answers, so he left. And he kept coming back! But what am I supposed to do? I don’t remember everything. I’m not goddamn Sherlock Holmes!”

With a sigh, Wilbur understood and accepted they were not meeting each other again on the best of terms. There wasn’t much else Wilbur could argue with….unless...no. He couldn’t. Not to Tommy. Never to Tommy.

“You’re right. And I’m sorry, but I have more questions. I tried to make them a bit different, but they’re still questions.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. One could assume Tommy was being insolent, but Wilbur was used to this from him. Hell, this wasn’t even the worst of it, not by a long show. He certainly was not someone you forgot easily in that regard. It's something you’d have to get used to if you didn’t want to kill him.

“Look, Tommy, I’m here to help. Could you try to, like, make it easier for me and just answer the questions?” A short pause of silence. “Could you try?”

“Oh, fine, Wilbur. Ask away. But I can tell you right now, if any of them have to do with me being near Tubbo when he disappeared, don’t waste your time, because I wasn’t near him at all.” His voice became a grumbling mumble. “If I had any idea where he was, I would’ve already tried to find him. Dammit, I would have already found him.”

It was useless to push Tommy more, and Wilbur knew it. He’d seen how pain sometimes makes people more irrational and snappy, and he couldn’t make it all better right away, if he could at all.

He stared at the parchment with his questions scribbled down. They all suddenly seemed useless. Too similar, too vague, too useless.

“Tommy.”

“What, Wilbur?”

“There’s nothing you can tell me at all, then?”

The house fell into a cold silence. The bees’ monotony could be heard from outside, and it was all Wilbur paid attention to. It grew loud in his ears, louder than Tommy’s response.

“I know _nothing,_ Wilbur. Not a single thing that could help you.”

It was just as well. Wilbur didn’t know anything, either. The people that were supposed to have answers and leads had nothing useful. Everything was off. But that was hardly a revelation.

“Tommy, Schlatt wants me to convince you to help George and I.” The boy appeared rather perplexed at his words, and Wilbur would be lying if he said the facial expression didn’t amuse him a bit.

“I-I’m sorry, Will, but I already told you, I’m not a detective. Not at all. B-But please, ask me your questions. Go right ahead.”

Yet Wilbur stayed silent. The paper with the questions written on it was slowly being crumpled up by his fist. Tommy blinked as his eyes narrowed.

“Wilbur? Aren’t those—”

“You said it yourself. If you say you know absolutely nothing, then you know absolutely nothing. Done.” His hair fell onto his eyes, and he didn’t bother fixing it. “It was nice seeing you again, Tommy. I missed you.”

The bees grew louder for just a moment when Wilbur opened the door and left without another word. For once, Tommy had no response for him.


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood spills, and important things are remembered. (And Sapnap's here. :D)

"Oh, god," George groaned. "This is terrible. I'm so sorry, Wilbur."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Wilbur replied, handing him a glass of juice. "But you really shouldn't let it get to that again."

They kept talking over their first breakfast together. It was the day after Wilbur's visit to Tommy's place. Wilbur wasn't going to mention it, but George asked him about his whereabouts, and he had no reason to lie.

"Well, I bought some food, and I made a stop at Tommy's. I wanted to ask him some questions about Tubbo, but he said he had no information, so I didn't waste my time."

George scoffed. "What? You should have asked him the questions anyway. What if he's hiding something?"

"He has no reason to."

George lingered on the statement, spoken without hesitation, and a possibility struck him. "Wilbur, have you ever considered the fact Tommy might have had something to do with Tubbo's disappearance?"

The look on Wilbur's face almost made George laugh. "That's ridiculous."

"Oh, but you of all people should know not to rule out anyone. How many murder cases have you seen where it was the work of a sibling, or a spouse...or a best friend?"

"Not many, actually. Jesus, how bad has it gotten around here?"

It was George's turn to make a face. "I'm just saying, someone's relationship with a victim does not change the fact anyone can have a motive."

Once again, Wilbur's spirits dimmed.

"I suppose you're right."

"Wilbur," George sighed, lifting his glass and observing the pulp, "you _know_ I'm right."

"Tommy!" Later in the day, when the sun was westward and the shadows lean and long, Wilbur and George made the walk back to the boy's house with growing knots in their stomachs. The scrunched-up paper with the queries was in George's hand now, while Wilbur stuck his hands in his pockets, breath almost smoky from the start of autumn, and with it, the cold.

With a quick knock on the door, Wilbur yelled that it was him.

"Oh, what do you want now?" His voice was muffled from behind the door, but the tone was unmistakable.

"Tommy, please," Wilbur shouted back. Some people shot him strange looks from across the streets, but neither George nor Wilbur seemed to notice.

"Ugh." The door creaked open, introducing a pissed-off Tommy with narrowed eyes and some questions of his own. "Wh—Oh, George is with you. I suppose you found a breakthrough in Tubbo's case, George?"

"Not yet—"

_Slam!_

"Dammit!" said George. "Why is he such a—a _brat?"_

"He's worse than usual," Wilbur muttered. "It's just because he's upset, though. He doesn't hate you or anything."

"Well, tell him I've been trying too hard for him to be mad at me."

"Tommy!" Wilbur tried again. "We're just trying to find Tubbo!"

It took a good minute—George almost insisted they head back—but the door creaked open. Wilbur hid his smirk; he knew Tommy would give them another chance, even if the boy wasn't happy about it.

_"For fuck's sake._ What do I have to do to get it through your heads? I have nothing useful for you!"

"Just let us ask you the questions," George said in an uncharacteristically calm tone, "and tell us anything you know about it, regardless of importance. We want everything you've got."

Tommy hesitated, but muttered a "fine" before the questions began rolling in.

The process didn't turn out to be as taxing as the detectives thought it would be. A little while went by, and although they kept scribbling down Tommy's words, they were both confident it would not provide much—it felt like a loop of "No, he didn't seem to be worried about anything" and "Of course I would have remembered if he'd told me something important...

"wait a second..."

Wilbur's eyes lit up at the prospect of a quote, a golden memory Tommy might have had. "Yeah?"

"He said...fuck, what was it?"

Tommy's foot bounced against the floor, and it squeaked in time with the ticking clock. He ran his hands through his hair. "I forgot. How did I forget?"

"We don't need it verbatim," George stated slowly. "Do you remember bits and pieces?"

"Ah...hmm. He mentioned...oh, shit." Tommy's foot froze; he looked straight ahead. "I think he mentioned Schlatt."

Wicked satisfaction sparked in Wilbur. Of course it went back to Schlatt. "You think?"

"Yes...maybe...yes. Yes, he definitely mentioned Schlatt." His face grew more fearful with every word. "Oh, God."

"Alright. Is there anything else, Tommy? Anything at all? I think we've spent enough time here..."

"I'll get right to you if I remember anything else, Wil—"

"How the hell did you _just_ remember that?" George shot up from his seat, startling everyone else in the room. "I just—have you been keeping this to yourself on purpose? Why would you do that?"

"George, stop," Wilbur hissed, almost embarrassed, but George didn't miss a beat.

"Is this some repressed memory you had? How long ago did Tubbo say that to you? And why the _hell_ did you think it was a good idea to not say anything?" His pen was pointed at Tommy's face, and the confusion in the boy's eyes flashed and became anger.

"Hey, hey, hey! Do _you_ remember everything when you're supposed to? Leave me the fuck alone!"

"Well, I tend to remember things after I've been asked about it a thousand times!"

"George, what the fuck are you doing?" Wilbur stood up and faced George, baffled at his behavior. "Leave him be! We have what we need now. We're leaving."

The detectives left, though Wilbur had to practically force George out the door.

It was only then Tommy smiled, because he knew for sure Wilbur was still there for him.

The night was velvety and weighed the town down. Wilbur and George were having trouble looking far enough ahead on Drasp's caliginous roads, but George knew the way by heart. Wilbur was at his heels, head angled to the floor.

"Schlatt." Wilbur kicked a stone, and it made a dull sound. "Of-fucking-course." His laugh was forced and dour.

"What do you mean?"

"Schlatt was suspicious the moment I saw him."

"You had a hunch, then." George had an edge to his voice, a symptom of his irritation. "That adds up to two people keeping things from me."

"A hunch isn't evidence. Relax."

The two of them had a lot to say, but walked in silence for a while anyway. It was George who finally spoke:

"Wilbur, let me tell you what I did before you arrived: I asked most of the townspeople, walking throughout Drasp several times, and I also tried to connect the little information I had to create a timeline. Of course, you can see all of it was pointless." He waved it off with a flick of his hand as though it didn't bother him. "I know you really want to find him, and I do too, but let's be honest with ourselves: we're not getting anything done right now."

The words were sharper to Wilbur when he was the one receiving them. His silence proved George right.

They didn't seem to care much about the sky until it began to rain unusually hard.

"Oh, you're fucking kidding me!" Wilbur's glasses were suddenly useless, pummeled with water droplets, as if he needed any more trouble seeing in the night. George's goggles weren't looking any better.

"The house is too far!" The rain was coming down in frightful sheets now, pelting anyone who dared to remain outside. Wilbur and George were yelling at each other over the rush of the water, voices hoarse, imagining they'd be met with nasty colds in a few days. If Wilbur wasn't so pissed off, he would have laughed at the thrill of it.

George kept running along the streets assuming Wilbur would follow, but the pouring water blended everything together. In the blink of a frantic eye, he could have sworn he saw someone's wisp of a shadow in the distance.

"WILBUR! Where are you?"

"Where are _you?_ Oh—fuck!"

It wasn't even graceful, boots slipping on the slick stone and hands flailing. He hit the floor like a corpse and, for just a second, felt nothing but the cold rain and his head throbbing. Something like a warm sensation was quickly seeping through his scalp. It hurt too much to think, to move, and it was all so sudden. He didn't even hear the noise of quickening boots over the ache of his head and the voice screeching in his head about how stupid he was.

It was so cold. Wilbur couldn't be bothered.

The diluted blood coming from Wilbur's head stained George's shaking fingers. Although he was speechless, his mind raced, trying to get Wilbur to sit up and say something, anything. His mind went straight to the only person he knew who could do something about this, and it just so happened his house was nearby.

The first few minutes after were the worst.

"Wilbur, please get up." George was already coughing, the water seeping into them both as the storm never seemed to stop. "I know who can help you, okay?"

"Is it that bad?" Wilbur's throat raspy and dry from the cold and confusion, his voice hoarse.

"Well, it's not exactly _good._ Come on, now." And they dragged themselves forward until the house they were looking for was in front of them. They didn't bother staying out of the rain. It was then George and Wilbur realized their notes were missing, but that seemed trivial in the moment.

"Sapnap!" George banged on the door with his fist. Wilbur was standing against the wall, posture careless, head hung. The terrible throbbing sensation felt like it would never end.

Sapnap was a complete mystery to the town: no one knew anything about him, yet most of the town considered him a friend; he was outgoing and could talk to anyone but just didn't feel like it most days. George was Sapnap's best friend, but it always amazed the detective that Sapnap never got bored with him, especially when he was working.

The lights were off in the house, which George found odd when the front porch was glowing, but George and Wilbur could do nothing but wait, shivering and sighing in the cold.

"Thank you, George," Wilbur mumbled. It was the least he could say; it was all he could think of.

George scoffed, only out of disbelief. "Of course." His voice trembled from his body shaking, but Wilbur didn't say anything. He barely noticed.

The lights in the house flashed on. George's head snapped at the glow through the watery windows, but Wilbur only winced. "I should've asked before, but I'm assuming..."

"Yeah, it's Sapnap's."

Wilbur hardly knew George, forget Sapnap. His personality was difficult to place, but anyone could tell he wasn't a bad person. Wilbur just couldn't be bothered to know him better.

"Sapnap! Why the hell are you drenched?"

"I was just—I mean, I was going for a run," he said, eyes sharp like flames, "and then it started raining. I, like, just came in through the back. Sorry." His shirt stuck to him, and it was impossible to distinguish his sweat from the rain. A trail of water dotted the floor behind him. He pinched the dark folds of his shirt to get the cold away from him, but they always stuck right back.

"Whatever. Get a towel. I need your help—"

"Is that Wilbur?" Sapnap interrupted, staying still. He didn't mention the red streaks slowly bleeding into his shirt, or the breath he held so as to not complain. "Wilbur?"

"You're so dense sometimes. He's bleeding from the head. I don't think it's too serious, but could you focus on _that_ bit, please?"

"I—oh. Yeah. Um." He disappeared into a hall for two towels and returned with two fluffy towels. His head tilted to his left. "Tell him to sit at the table."

Wilbur did not remember very well how long any of it took—the running, the rain, the blood. It frustrated him, but it felt better soon enough.

"What the fuck happened to my head, Sapnap." He wanted to touch it but thought it better not to.

"Well, first, think a 'thank you' is in order," he began, cleaning his hands. "But you just fell, plain and simple. A rock hit you in the head—not good."

"No kidding." He could still feel the warmth of the blood on his skin.

"You'll be fine. It was large, but shallow. And you were _really_ lucky it wasn't the base of your head." They were both sitting at the kitchen table, the rain pouring as hard as ever. Wilbur could barely hear Sapnap and felt slightly bad about it.

"I didn't know you knew this much about doctoring."

"I didn't, not until this maniac started to research paranormal shit that tried to kill him. He'd be dead if I didn't learn." Sapnap pointed a stained thumb at George, who was having a glass of milk in the small kitchen. Wilbur flinched at the sight of his blood on someone else.

"Oops," George scoffed and made his way to Sapnap. They were all freezing from their clothes, fabric stretched and softened into dark rags. Sapnap took the milk from unsuspecting hands and gulped it down.

"What the hell, man?"

"I don't have to ask you for some; this is my stuff. Just go get some more for yourself."

George was annoyed, but he didn't want to argue. He went back to the kitchen, staring at the glass's bottom as he did so.

"Uh...thank you, Sapnap," Wilbur forced himself to say. His words felt awkward and clunky. "Thank you."

"No problem."

"Um..."

"Hmm. So, what brings you back? I thought you were gone for good."

"Schlatt called me back as a favor to find Tubbo." The words tasted wrong in his mouth, and Wilbur knew why.

"Right." Sapnap kept asking questions, but his tone suggested his focus was on something else. He looked very nonchalant. Too nonchalant.

"Say, Sapnap, how long were you out on a run for?"

"Half an hour or so." He didn't hesitate in his response, but he didn't look at Wilbur when he spoke.

"Where did you go during your run?"

George raised an eyebrow, his eyes facing Wilbur until Sapnap began to stutter. "Smaller roads and stuff. The rain started getting really bad, so I came back."

"Mm."

"There actually aren't that many small roads in Drasp, you know," George said, followed by a thoughtful sip of milk. His matted hair fell in his face. "It's a lot easier to take the main ones."

"I didn't care. Damn, can you guys interrogate someone worth interrogating? I go on runs all the time."

George nodded slightly in agreement, which was his way of telling Wilbur not to push further. Although Wilbur trusted George, he considered the possibility of a friend protecting a friend, if only for a second before realizing that defeated the purpose of George's struggles.

"Sorry, Sapnap," Wilbur sighed. "That came out of nowhere."

"No, I get it," said Sapnap with a chuckle. "You have to ask everyone. Even George has asked me once or twice."

"Fair enough," Wilbur shrugged. He stared out the window, his glasses spotted despite cleaning them with his drying shirt. The rain was soothing as it slowed down.

Conversation wasn't Wilbur's strong spot, but he tried anyway, concentrating on his head pounding. It was constant, unlike George and Sapnap's conversations—it was magic, the way they rambled about nothing.

Despite the horrible humidity and slick streets, Wilbur and George decided they should leave as soon as the rain dialed down enough.

"You can stay here, if you want," Sapnap told them. "I mean, if it's easier."

"Don't worry about it," Wilbur shook his head, "but thanks."

"Yeah, we should probably be heading back, anyway." George grinned. He gave his friend a hug before going down the porch steps with Wilbur.


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur and George witness a calamity.

How long had Wilbur been in Drasp? A few days? It felt like so much longer. Everything went by too slowly. The detective was giving thought to this as George offered him some bread the next morning.

“No thanks,” Wilbur said. He hadn’t been very hungry in days, but he wasn’t too worried. As long as he could stand, he was fine.

George sighed and broke off a piece for himself. He gave the rest to Wilbur. It remained untouched.

“You have to eat.”

Wilbur took a small bit for himself and chewed slowly.

“Right...I think you’ll have to eat faster than that. Bring your pen and your girly handwriting; we’re interrogating the leader of Drasp today.”

Besides its political dramas, Drasp is known for its unique architecture. Floating statues, buildings of wool...the town always looked ridiculous. It was where Wilbur wished he could stay.

After today, he might be sent back early.

He could hear Schlatt’s commanding voice in his head the entire walk to the capital building. _You have the nerve to accuse_ me? _The leader of this town?_ And Niki would be looking out the window, her thoughts in another world, a world away from Schlatt.

“Unbelievable,” Technoblade had said. His sword stabbed the ground, glinting in the sunset. “Just ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Such a prestigious building.” The day was chilly, and Techno’s hair fluttered around his face. He would have looked like he was in a drama, but his frown ruined it. “And for what, Wilbur? Corrupt leaders.”

“Hmm.” Back then, Wilbur didn’t care much for politics, so he always half-listened to Techno when it was brought up (which was more often than Wilbur would have liked). That was always a juxtaposition they had—Techno fixated on governments, Wilbur just trying to get by. Looking back, the detective probably should have paid more attention.

They were sitting on a bench, warmed in the orange sun. The future capital was looking prestigious indeed: columns worthy of the Greeks, towering walls of stone and marble. It was close to done.

“Schlatt knows what he’s doing,” Wilbur shrugged. “Maybe he’s what Drasp needs. A new voice, a new head on new shoulders.” Receiving a concerned look, Wilbur regretted his statement.

“You think Schlatt will be good for Drasp?”

Wilbur considered it. “I said ‘maybe.’”

Techno’s blade shot up from the earth, and he sheathed it soundlessly. “Wilbur, I know you don’t care about politics, but you need to trust me on this. Schlatt is shady. A true businessman.” He scoffed. “You’ve heard the speeches. I can’t wait until the town sees him for who he is.”

“How are you so sure?”

Wilbur met Techno’s gaze. It caught onto Wilbur’s mind like a hook, and it burned in his memory.

“Well, just look at Dream. How can leaders be trusted when they all go back to someone as tyrannical as him?”

Wilbur shut his eyes when he remembered Techno’s face on the day of exile. It was so painful, so accepting. He could almost hear him saying, _What did I tell you?_

He thought no more of it. George looked as though he was inclined to break the silence, but he never did.

“Why hello there,” Schlatt boomed as though he was expecting guests. Niki wasn’t with him at first, but she walked into the room a few moments after Wilbur and George arrived. Schlatt shot her a glance, and Niki hurried to the chair at his side. Wilbur and George smiled in greeting, and she mirrored it for them.

“Hello,” said Wilbur, clearing his throat. “Uh, we’re here to ask you guys a few questions.”

“I can’t guess what for,” Schlatt said. He was already bored.

“Let’s make this brief, Schlatt. I take no pleasure in seeing you again.”

Schlatt’s lips spread into a smirk. “I’m flattered anyway.”

“New facts have come to light as of yesterday, and we need confirmation.” Wilbur took out a notepad; George followed suit. “If you don’t believe us, you can ask Tommy yourself.

“Yesterday evening, we interviewed Tommy in his house. When asked about the last thing Tubbo told him before disappearing, Tommy said he had mentioned your name.”

“Well, I am very popular around here.”

“Right.” George readied his pen. “But people don’t mention names for no reason. Is there something you told him? Did you give him a job to do or something?” His questions didn’t come out of thin air; Schlatt was one to ask for little favors around town. He said it helped “build community.”

Schlatt seemed to like the idea of a task. “Let me think...Niki, did I ever do that? Give some big final task to Tubbo?” The phrasing made it sound like Tubbo was already dead, beyond saving. His voice was supple, reaching for an answer. Wilbur narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

Niki’s head snapped at the mention of her name. She looked frightened for half a second. “You-you might have. I forget.”

“Don’t lie to me. Did I ever say such a thing?”

“Is there any chance _you_ remember, Schlatt?” George asked hesitantly. His foot tapped against the floor, and it made a dull sound that didn’t carry.

“What if I did remember?” He stood up, appearing as the most important in the room, the most notable, the most suspect. “What would you ask me next?”

“This isn’t a game, Schlatt. Answer the question.” Wilbur revealed a small smile.

“Alright, lover-boy. Yikes, you’re no more fun than the last time I saw you. Yes, I asked Tubbo to do me a favor—that is to say, the entire town a favor.”

Wilbur’s lips were pursed as his mind raced with options. He could see George scribbling it all down, word after sly word.

“Well, what was the task?”

“He was just a boy…” Niki uttered. She spoke in that fragile, broken voice of hers. “She’s cracked porcelain,” Techno had said to Wilbur. It was like a painting, clear as glass in Wilbur’s head: Techno and him were next to each other, watching the candidate’s speech. Niki was standing right next to Schlatt on the stage. Her dress was a velvety red, like fresh wine, and it matched her eyeshadow. She was smiling as Schlatt spoke. “Always has been. And Schlatt will be the one to finally shatter her.”

“You’re _so_ poetic.”

“Shut up.”

“Just a CHILD!” Niki yelled, startling Wilbur from his memories. Even Schlatt was taken aback; Niki never yells. She hardly even raises her voice.

“Niki—” Wilbur began. But she wasn’t listening. No one mattered. No one but Schlatt.

“NO!” She continued. “No! This isn’t fair! This isn’t fair…” her face contorted as she cried. “Schlatt, you monster! Idiot! You knew it wasn’t right!” She covered her mouth with her hands. She realized what she had done.

Exchanging a look, Wilbur and George could do nothing but watch. Their papers were quickly filled with every pained word, their necks in a sudden dance between the paper and the argument. It was like Niki forgot they were there, like they were behind glass and she was acting for them. Schlatt tried to hide it, but to Wilbur, it appeared the leader was having a splendid time.

“Niki...Niki, please.” Schlatt made his way to her, but she backed away. She was almost scared. Terrified. Yet she didn’t stop.

“No. Get away from me.” She stumbled over a table but caught herself. What was happening?

“Niki, what are you doing?” Schlatt inched closer, but it didn’t make him any less intimidating. “Relax. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wilbur closed his eyes. Tight. So tight his vision was swirls of blue and green. _What did I tell you?_

“I certainly do! You just won’t admit it!” She pointed her finger. It flashed before everyone’s eyes. “‘I want Tubbo back?’ Over my dead body!”

Schlatt scoffed and mumbled, “That can be arranged.”

“Both of you, stop!” George tucked his pen and papers in his coat carelessly. Wilbur took his arm; George wouldn’t be getting wrapped up into this. Niki and Schlatt paid him no mind, anyway. They were too busy wanting to kill each other. The words popped up in his mind, but he couldn’t speak them.

Niki as a murderer. Her hands stained forever.

She was glaring daggers. Would she hold one next?

“GEORGE! WILBUR!”

The detectives swerved to the entrance of the building, where the doors were thrown open and a boy with revenge in his eyes bared his teeth.

“Tommy, what on Earth are you doing here?” This was George.

Tommy took out his sword with a single swish. It was the best one Tommy owned, the sharpest and lightest—the deadliest. “I know what Schlatt did. And he’s about to fucking pay for it.”


	6. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur and Tommy suddenly have very important, difficult decisions to make.

“Don’t kill him, Tommy. Don’t do it.” It was all Wilbur could say. He wasn’t sure how Tommy knew where he and George were. He still wasn’t sure what Schlatt had done. He wasn’t sure how Tommy found out about the truth. Despite everything, he was still clueless.

The boy said nothing, eyes wide in shock and fear. Wilbur leaned into Tommy’s ear, holding his blade’s against the boy’s neck, unmoving. “Promise me.”

Tommy grunted as he pushed Wilbur away. “No. Sorry.” His sword was already prepared to strike at anything, anyone. As long as it was for Tubbo, Tommy wouldn’t feel much regret. Wilbur’s heart was heavy in his chest.

“Tommy!” Wilbur cried, but it was hopeless as the boy broke free of Wilbur’s grip and stumbled over himself, desperate for vengeance. It was still the same Tommy he had left all that time ago, and that meant he wouldn’t listen when he needed to. If Tommy didn’t care enough to pay attention to Wilbur, someone was about to bleed.

George had his own sword at the ready. It was normal to carry them around in Drasp, but the two detectives were hesitant before departing; bringing them to the capital building of all places didn’t exactly express peaceful terms. They were suddenly very grateful for the decision they made.

Schlatt and Niki had not stopped staring at each other since Tommy walked in. Did either of them even notice Tommy was there?

Frantic, Wilbur looked around, too much moving too fast. The room was absurdly large, appearing bigger still from the lack of decoration. He supposed Schlatt didn’t have the time to care about such things—

“—because you were too busy getting rid of Tubbo!” Tommy’s voice was a raspy yell, a cracked shell of the confidence he usually had. The tears in his eyes were glossy and endless. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

This is the last thing anyone needed. All Wilbur could feel was an ache, a dreary one that hurt his head and stomach.

“I gave him a JOB!” Schlatt’s voice was enough to silence everyone, even Niki’s whimpers and mutters. Her hands were over her mouth, her eyes red and squinting. When his fist met the table, it was a terrible shock.

“It was one small task, Tommy! It’s his fault if he fucked it up, the goddamn idiot!” He didn’t have a sword, but he didn’t need one. His words were more than enough. _What did I tell you?_

“What. Job. Was it.” Tommy was seething.

“It’s none of your business, kid.” Schlatt turned, composure unmatched, glare sharp like steel. “George, you have disappointed me very much. And, Wilbur...oh, I’m afraid your stay in this town is over, lover-boy.” He let out a dark chuckle.

“I haven’t found Tubbo yet.” Wilbur’s head was hurting so much, he thought he would start bleeding from it again. Tears welled in his eyes, worried sick for Tubbo and disappointed in himself and frustrated at Tommy, but Schlatt wasn’t worthy of any of them.

“You had your chance. You’re just a visitor at best and a threat at worst.”

“You didn’t answer the _fucking question!_ That was my chance!” Wilbur felt the anger in him pour out as he spoke, a reservoir begging to be emptied. It was frustration, it was rage, and it was only for Schlatt.

“Wilbur! Oh, Wilbur…” Schlatt’s strides and smiles were too graceful, every move too well planned. He grabbed Wilbur’s shoulders and spoke quietly enough only for him to hear. Tommy snarled; George watched in suspicion. Wilbur did not notice either of them, not with Schlatt inches away, his malice thickening the air.

“You’re so _fucking_ stupid, ” the leader spoke uncharacteristically slow, “you don’t know when you’re being used.”

_Squelch._

Schlatt’s mouth ran red without warning. The blood choked him as it forced itself out with his every attempt at speaking. It splattered onto Wilbur’s face and clothes, not enough to be gory, but enough to be questioned. It left the detective frozen.

Niki shrieked, somehow not out of breath. George mentioned something about getting Sapnap, but the voices became mumbles. All of them.

Tommy’s sword was stained crimson.

“Tommy.” Wilbur’s voice tremored. He wished he could help it.

The boy’s chest wasn’t moving.

“Tommy.”

“I ju—”

“Tommy, run away. Dream will kill you.”

The murderer looked up. Old tear stains were refreshed with new ones. “Wil—”

“The forest. Go. Please.”

“I just _killed_ a man!” Tommy dropped his sword, his hands making his way to his hair. He ran them through a thousand times, a million, maybe. “Maybe I _should_ die, Will!”

Tommy could have stabbed Wilbur right then, and it would have hurt less.

Schlatt’s body was limp on the floor in the middle of the room. Even in death, he was the center of attention. For a second, he saw Tommy on the ground instead, and the words came out before he registered them.

“I can’t allow it.”

George and Sapnap returned running, but it was too late; Tommy knew exactly what he was doing, and after a quick examination, Sapnap shook his head. “He’s gone.” His voice wasn’t grief-stricken, but he had a heart, so he was still distressed. He glanced at the bloodied sword. “Who did it?”

If George was going to tell Sapnap the truth, Wilbur stopped it with a single look. “They-they stabbed him once and left. No one saw.” His panic caused him to give a terribly weak excuse.

“There’s no way _nobody_ saw, George.”

It wasn’t hard to do what came next. The detective would have to leave according to law, anyway; a person’s death doesn’t affect what would always be.

Wilbur tore his eyes from Tommy. “It was me.”

The blood spread out on the floor, a blooming pool. It was vibrant against the smooth floor. He looked at it the entire time as he spoke.

“Tommy says Schlatt got rid of Tubbo. So I had to get rid of him.” A pause. _Not to Tommy. Never to Tommy._ “He was a tyrant. Witnesses are secondary; it is done, and I cannot deny it.” It came to him so naturally, it scared him a little. His reasons felt legitimate. Perhaps in another life, it really would have been him with blood staining his hands.

Gaping beside him, Tommy’s face paled. If anyone was going down for this, it was not Wilbur. “No, listen—”

“Tommy, you saw it. You all saw it!” His arms presented the room rather flamboyantly, as if he was introducing a celebrity and not lying about murder. George bit his lip in concern. Niki looked intently, speechless. They were all speechless.

“It was me!” The pride in his voice grew sharply. _Not to Tommy. Never to Tommy._ “I’d do it again. Fuck, I’d do it a thousand times.” The words scratched against his throat, but he knew how to control it. His words were everything. Just a little bit of a pitch shift, that was all he needed.

He wasn’t exactly singing—that would be unnecessarily powerful. It was just the balance of the syllables, the perfect diction and intonation. He hated doing it, the guilt pressing against his stomach with each word, but he knew he had to, if it meant Tommy could live.

It was like a veil had been thrown upon everyone’s face. _Not to Tommy. Never to Tommy._ Confusion devolved into anger, shock becoming certainty with a few blinks of an eye. He still had it in him, despite the fact he never used it.

The second Tommy recognized the difference in Wilbur’s tone, he scrambled out the door—away from the scene—to avoid the effect. The detective smiled wider when the boy ran out the doors, nearly slipping on cooling blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to miss writing Schlatt smh


	7. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur runs straight toward the chaos; Tommy tries to get away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who's read this story and got here: I really appreciate you sticking around, and I hope you liked it. :) Because I'm so grateful, have some pain

The hour meant nothing anymore. All he could see was the trees. It was dark and dense, and it hissed with hidden creatures. His blade was ready to fight, even if he was not.

He was luckily able to stop running; he wasn't that deep into the forest, but it was so thick, no one could see him from the more populated parts of town. The outskirts would assume he was a vagabond, just another hunter.

Wilbur probably had so many questions for him—How did he know the detectives were in the capital building? How did he know _when?_ Now he would never get answers. It had all gone to shit, and it was all his fault.

The only thing Wilbur knew for sure, Tommy understood, was the reason for the murder.

It never left his mind. _I killed Schlatt. I killed him. With a single stab._ If Wilbur hadn't been there...Tommy didn't even get the chance to thank him.

During his walk alone amongst the trees, Tommy began to weigh his options, and as a person that acted on instincts, he found it frustratingly difficult. He could go back, and no one would suspect it to be him...he could thank Wilbur for that and then find George. They could keep trying to look for Tubbo.

Goddamn Tubbo. Why did he have to go missing? The loneliness creeped back into Tommy's system, a vicious, ceaseless cycle as he walked within infinite greens and browns.

He didn't have Wilbur anymore. The detective—his _friend—_ had been there for days, but now it meant nothing. Tommy knew the stay would be temporary, but he thought they could at least have a bittersweet goodbye; now it tasted like iron and guilt.

Despite all the confusion whirling in Tommy's head, he kept walking. It was all he could do to not pound his head against a tree. Wilbur could convince anyone he wanted, sure, but for how long? Surely he didn't think he could keep it up forever?

The blurs of tears in Tommy's eyes were enough to convince him rest was what he needed, and the bees finally lulled him.

Wilbur desperately hoped Techno wouldn't see him in the streets, and that was fortunately the case; unbeknownst to the detective, his old friend was off in the flower-speckled hills going for a walk. It was the luckiest thing to happen that day.

He was somewhat terrified, although he wouldn't let it show. His hair covered his eyes, and he didn't move it for fear of them revealing anything.

Wilbur was about to face Dream.

Dream is so high up the ladder, Drasp's citizens sometimes forget he's a person and not some vague, primordial existence. (If there's one person who never forgets it, it's Technoblade.) It's hard to criticize those who think that, though—the man doesn't even show his face, having it covered by a crudely-painted mask. Schlatt was in charge of the town, but Dream was in charge of the world. And unlike the elected town leader, Dream could never be dethroned.

The walk wasn't completely unpleasant, thanks to the chill in the air, but it was long and dreadfully silent. Wilbur's scarf was tattered, but it still served its purpose. He picked at it the entire way to Dream's residence, the threads fraying and loosening themselves. A few detached and flew away in the breeze. Niki and George were escorting him swiftly. Wilbur's shoulders shook, but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or his muffled crying.

It was hard to think of one thing at a time—there was Tommy, who could be anywhere by now, and Tubbo still missing never stopped nagging at his mind. Those weren't even his biggest problems, not when he had his power to worry about.

The implications could quickly get difficult to keep track of if Wilbur wasn't attentive and didn't keep up the act. He made sure not to get carried away, because it took just as much work to reverse the effect, if not more. All he had convinced them of was that he killed Schlatt, and that was all he needed for Tommy to be safe.

During his voyage back into Drasp for Tubbo, Wilbur was weighing the question, just like he did with every other case—why shouldn't he just force the truth out with his voice? It would be so much easier...he would be the best private eye around; he could solve anything once he had the right person in front of him. He could have already found Tubbo.

With each time he asked himself the question, he came to the same conclusion: it was wrong. What respectable person thinks it's right to mind-control someone? If he was going to get justice, it would be fair. Besides, it made him a freak. What if someone exposed him? What would become of him then? That's why only Technoblade and Tommy knew—they were the only ones who _could_ know. Everyone else was either too close with Schlatt or Dream, or Wilbur just didn't know them well enough.

Both his friends made separate arguments but disagreed with him all the same. He remembered them both because they had been repeated so often. He thought of their words every day, but they never sat right with him, despite their best efforts to convince him.

"You're just being selfish, Wilbur," Tommy would say. The sun was positioned at dusk, Tommy feeding his horse as Wilbur helped pull out weeds. "Your power is so cool! Use it, man!"

"I'm glad you think it's _cool,_ but I just can't," he grunted at the effort of weeding. "It isn't right."

"Well, who cares if it's right? It's fucking cool!"

Tommy used to ask Wilbur to use it on him, and Wilbur couldn't ever bring himself to do it. It would piss Tommy off, if only for a few minutes, but the boy knew Wilbur had his reasons. Eventually, Tommy stopped asking, knowing the answer he'd get. Techno, on the other hand, wasn't as worried about how unique it was.

"Wilbur, you think so hard about the ethics of it...it just sounds exhausting."

"How surprising that the anarchist loner doesn't care about ethics."

"Ha!" His fist slammed against the table they were sitting at as his laughter quickly became a coughing fit. Wilbur wasn't worried—this was regular—but Techno thought he was and waved him off anyway.

"You know—damn well—I'm right, though. Stop—thinking too hard—"

Wilbur patiently waited to speak without interruption. "You say that, Techno, but...like, all I can _do_ is think about it. It just feels so wrong that I can do that to someone."

"Ugh, I'm getting another glass of water."

Wilbur took a small sip from his clear glass and slid it over the smooth table, his eyes zoned out from the dreariness of the spring night latching onto him. "You can have mine."

"Thanks, but I'll just get my own." Techno was already out of his chair.

"No, please, it's easier if you just take mine."

Techno's eyes glimmered in the evening light. His hands made vague motions. "Pfft, sorry. Are you planning on _mind controlling_ me and _making_ me take your water, Will?"

"Well, are you, Wilbur Soot?"

The detective shook his head, trying to clear it up. He had known for a while he spent too much time replaying memories, but it seemed to be getting worse. How long had the walk been?

"Uh, am I what?"

"Are you admitting your guilt? Did you kill Schlatt?" Cold, black dots met confused brown eyes.

It was not hard to say "Yes." Wilbur's face and clothes were decorated with Schlatt's blood—the folks had exchanged strange glances and hushed theories if they caught a glimpse. Everyone Dream could ask would say it's Wilbur. _Wilbur_ would say it's Wilbur—and he did.

"Alright, then. Thank you for your honesty." Behind his mask, Dream sighed, almost in pity, which Wilbur knew was just a trick—Dream had none.

"George, gather evidence for me, anyway, would you?"

"O-of course," George began, "but I was there, and I can confirm that Wilbur is the killer." He sounded slightly confused. Niki said nothing.

Dream tilted his head in scrutinization. "Compelling. But I still want that evidence. Is there a weapon I can see or something?"

"It's in the capital building," George said.

"Perfect. Thank you both." George and Niki nodded politely and tried not to rush out of the room out of fear and uncertainty. The focus was only on the detective now.

"Wilbur Soot. I'm honestly a little surprised."

Wilbur refused to let his head hang and concentrated on the two black dots. "Are you?"

"Yes." Dream spits the word out. "Extremely. I never thought you would resort to murder for anything. You are a detective, after all."

"I'll admit it, I surprised myself a little. But I guess..." he closed his eyes and smiled. It was supposed to be acting, but it felt real, almost right.

"I guess something just _snapped."_

"Mm. I get that."

There was an unnatural silence, filled only by Dream's fingers drumming a long-lost tune against the hilt of his sword. Getting up from his chair, he began walking quickly, with purpose, and Wilbur followed within eyeshot.

"I see no need for an official trial, Wilbur," he began. "However, since Schlatt was an important part of the community, it'll get messy and political very fast, and the town will want my confirmation. So, here's the plan: I announce your guilt while you stay under lock and key. We need things to cool down before we get rid of you."

Wilbur's heart stammered. "Get rid of me, you say? But I'm already exiled. Just tell me to leave and I'll never return, even if I wanted to." And he would definitely want to.

Dream sounded pleased. "You engaged in the coldblooded murder of a society's leader, Wilbur. You did it on my grounds, in a town I control, and your punishment is death."

Dream led a stoic Wilbur to a musty cell. "Say hello to your final home. You have two weeks left."

Bees can be particularly loud and annoying, and Tommy had the feeling there was a swarm of them nearby. The disgustingly sweet honey smell is what woke him up.

He remembered everything and was surprised his nightmares weren't fueled by it, but he didn't have dreams, either. His sleep was hollow and dark: he was still tired, but the plethora of stars greeting him when he awoke made him smile anyway. He was thankful he wasn't eaten or stabbed to death by any of the night's monsters, and he stood up with as much alertness as he could.

He'd rushed to his house to grab a clean sword before darting into the forest, since he'd left his best one in the capital building. The one in his hands now felt heavy, and he tossed it between his two hands as he walked.

Although the bees sounded like they were only a few feet away, Tommy didn't find a trail of honey or scattered pollen. He probably missed some clues; he's not a tracker by any means. There came a point where he could have sworn he was walking in circles.

A long time ago, Tubbo taught Tommy how to tell what time it was by the moon's position in the sky. It was hard to find it through the black, leafy branches, but Tommy caught slivers of it. It was just unfortunate that he did not know which way was East.

The realization took a few seconds, but it came all at once: _Which way leads back home?_

Tommy instinctively tightened the grip on his sword and ran in the direction where the moon was closest to the horizon. When that led him into uncharted territory, he ran back to where he began, then to the left, then back, then to the right, then toward the moon—no, he went away from it, didn't he? Unless that meant North...where is North? Is he North right now? Why do all the trees look the same?

"Dammit!" His anger was coming back to him in rippling waves, and he didn't know how to control it. He thrust his sword against a tree, suddenly smug about not missing the bark.

"Ah!" a voice said. It was small and weak, and it cracked. Tommy knew exactly how it cracked.

"Shit." The forest was suddenly expanding and shrinking at the same time, his feet glued to the ground against his will. With every beat of his heart, a new question was raised.

"T—" he couldn't even say it without choking on it. "Tubb...o...?"

A few leaves rustled. Pairs of them fluttered down. The thick smell of honey was making its way to Tommy, and he followed hesitantly.

"Tubbo. Are you...are you there?"

"Uh..." the voice stammered, and it sounded slurred. Was he hurt?

"Tommy?"

 _Crunch. Crunch._ Tommy winced with each broken leaf under his feet, worried he was doing something wrong by making the noise.

The bees were congregated around a gigantic oak tree—Tommy could wrap his whole body around it, and he was one of the taller people he knew. It looked like it was the center of the forest, the birthplace of it. Tommy's sword jutted out from the tree next to it, which was just a few meters away.

When the moonlight hit the tree bark, Tommy squinted at the dark streaks that decorated it. Tommy had seen enough of it to know what it was, and his thoughts stuttered with possibilities, none of them uplifting.

Tommy clutched at his heart and bolted toward it, despite the world screaming at him not too. Owls taunted him in the distance, their hooting warping his thoughts. Spiders hissed, and he couldn't hear himself crying, but he definitely was.

At first, he only saw limp legs, then slow-moving arms, and all of it was shiny with golden sap. He looked up and wished he hadn't.

He almost felt bad for looking, but he had to. Each disbelieving laugh was a twist of a dagger. Each assurance was a pin in their hearts.

It was Tubbo, the one he'd missed so much and killed someone for. But it was not the Tubbo that went into the forest. This Tubbo bled and cried at the base of the oak tree.

"Tubbo, are you okay?" Tommy sniffled, the stupidity of the question only becoming aware after it was asked. He kneeled down little by little and forced a smile.

"Tommy, don't come closer!" The careful movements were replaced with scrambling ones, desperate to get away, but the stickiness left him useless on the ground.

"No, Tubbo—" Tommy's lips froze. What could he say?

"Tommy, please, just—don't get near the bees." Tubbo's burning tears swirled together with blood and honey and bee wings. Could he see properly?

The buzzes played tricks with Tommy's ears, reverberating all around him.

"What happened?" His voice trembled, and he hated how it sounded because it was never supposed to sound like that. He was supposed to help Tubbo, not distress him. Despite his best friend's wishes, Tommy came closer. Tubbo's shoulder was goopy and warm, and Tommy tried his hardest to ignore it, though that made nothing better.

With a whisper, Tubbo smiled. "The bees, Tommy. I need you to leave."

"What do you mean, 'leave?'" Tommy shook Tubbo's shoulder. It was an instant regret when Tubbo winced.

"Tommy, you'll just end up like me—"

"I'm not leaving you."

"You have to!"

But all Tommy could do was stare through the bleariness of his eyes. It didn't take long to notice the bees weren't very interested in Tommy. Tubbo raised an eyebrow.

"How...how don't they come for you?"

Tommy found it somewhere in him to laugh, a piece of cheerfulness only Tubbo could possibly reveal. "I'm not the one covered in honey."

"Well, it's not like I _came_ here covered in honey. This is their fault." Tubbo looked around lazily and gestured to the insects humming around him. One of them landed on Tommy, and Tubbo's eyes shone with fear.

"Don't. Move."

Another landed on his hand. He felt one on his ear. They crawled painfully slowly.

Tubbo jerked his arms around, snapping his fingers and causing a good-enough distraction. He looked kind of ridiculous; Tommy had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from cackling. The bees took a minute and decided they were bored; Tubbo's snaps caught their attention, and they floated over to the boy they knew very well.

"Hmm," Tommy noticed. This wouldn't do at all. Someone had to fix Tubbo, and Tommy did not know how. It tore him apart, but it's not like Tubbo could afford to notice that.

"Listen, old friend. We're getting out of here."

"You don't think I've tried?" Tubbo's voice was frustrated. Tommy couldn't help but notice the pink dots that newly adorned Tubbo's arms. He hadn't even flinched...did he feel them stinging him anymore?

"We're as good as lost. This forest is a labyrinth. Schlatt knew exactly what he was doing." The name sent a chill through Tommy's spine, but he managed to ignore it.

Tommy's breath came out slow. "But I think all we can do is try."

And so they did, hoping with every careful, curious step they would not fail. The bees did not bother Tommy any longer (mutant bees are peculiar things), and neither did the buzzing—how could they, when he had Tubbo back?

Tubbo's face lit up each time they came across a different type of flower, insisting with each one they must be close. All Tommy could do in return is smile. Tubbo didn't seem to be in pain, but just looking at him made Tommy's heart hurt, and he had had enough of that recently.

They continued on in the darkness, which gave way to soft sunlight sooner than they expected. Tommy had retrieved his sword before they left the bloodstained tree together, its blade hanging at his side. Tommy was uncomfortably aware of it, its swaying a reminder of what he could do with it.

Tubbo was not exaggerating with the word "labyrinth—" mushroom rings and rock formations kept throwing the two off, not to mention how tired they got of seeing oak trees. They almost didn't notice the sparsity of them in the late afternoon.

"Tommy, surely we're close now!" Tubbo slurred slightly. He had been saying that for a while, each time exciting Tommy less and less. Regardless, Tubbo continued: "We need to keep going this way. There are less trees—oh!" His hand grasped at Tommy's shirt, forcing him closer to look where his sticky finger was pointing. "You see it, too, right?"

It was the town with the ridiculous buildings, wooden paths, and cobblestone statues. It was Drasp; it was home.

"Yeah, Tubbo." Tommy squeezed his friend's shoulder. "It's kinda far, but I see it. Uh...we can't go back just yet, though.

"I have some explaining to do. Let's just say...shit went down."


End file.
